Inspiring, true stories of adventure, adversity, resilience and hope.
This is my best recipe for lemonade. Especially in the summer, when it was so hot in Mazatlán, I made a gallon of lemonade every day.
Mix together in large glass pitcher:
Garnish with lemon slices.
Chance, my middle grandson, is trading his tree house for a dorm room at the end of the summer. He is leaving the mountains of Winter Park and moving to downtown Salem, Oregon to attend Willamette University. His life will never be the same. Either will mine.
Chance is an only child. He has been with most of the same kids since preschool. It hasn’t always been easy.
When other kids were chasing each other up and down the playground, Chance was playing elaborate games of make-believe. When his classmates were thinking of ways to get in trouble, Chance was reading books.
I loved spending time with Chance in the summers, when he came to Denver for enrichment classes. He was an eager student in Grandma’s Cooking School. We toured Aurora and Boulder together. We went to the zoo, the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, and a lot of swimming pools.
Being with Chance is to experience magic, first-hand. He is a cross between a leprechaun and a medieval knight. He loves to have fun and play games. He is handsome and charming, quiet and shy, but mostly ~ he is a good boy.
This is my letter to Chance on this last summer before he takes on the world:
Dear Chance ~I am so grateful to have you in my life! You are an amazing grandson. Every day I spend with you, every phone call, every text and email, every time I think about you brings me joy. Pure joy!
I appreciate your kind heart and your grace under pressure. You are polite, considerate and respectful, in a world in which those qualities are more important than ever. Others can learn from your example. That is your message to share.
I appreciate that you are exceptional in so many ways. You are a reader and a writer, an athlete and a scholar, a computer wizard and a theater geek. You passed all of your classes with “A’s” and earned the respect of your teachers for your hard work and natural talent. Your ability to memorize Magic Cards blows me away. College will be easier than you think. Have fun.
I especially appreciate your creativity and your vivid imagination. Your mind travels to far-away places where dragons live and pirates fly their boats in the the skies. Hold on to your creativity and your wonderful imagination. They will take you to places that others can only dream about.
Other people appreciate your beautiful smile and the twinkle in your eyes. I do, too. But most of all, I appreciate the light in your heart, the breadth of your soul, the sharpness of your mind, and your keen understanding of what’s truly important.
Baby, you are the best. I am so very proud of you. Vaya con Dios!
I will always love you!
Grandma
Traditional Mexican rice pudding is nearly all liquid, with only a few grains of rice. This recipe is more like traditional Minnesota rice pudding ~ thick and creamy. It is my favorite comfort food.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease a one-quart casserole.
Combine in a medium saucepan and heat just to boiling:
Simmer, uncovered, over low heat, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching. Cook until rice is tender, about 20 minutes. Cool slightly.
Pour into buttered casserole and add:
Sprinkle with:
Bake at 350 degrees, about 30-45 minutes or until set.
José Abila has been my handyman, fix-it-guy, and friend for my past five houses. What he has never been is… on time.
José is a kind, patient man whose glass is always at least half-full. He firmly believes that every day has more than twenty-four hours. He likes to talk and I like hearing his stories.
Born in Chihuahua, Mexico, in the middle of eleven children, José left school early and came to the U.S. at the age of fourteen. There were too many mouths for his mother to feed and plenty of boys to help his father run their small ranch. He decided to strike out on his own.
Jose’s story is a universal story of the Mexican worker. He came to the United States to learn English and to work hard. He wanted to help support his family. Now he has one foot firmly planted on each side of the border.
As a boy, José was eager to learn what was on El Otro Lado ~ The Other Side. He crossed the border in Juarez and came straight north to Denver, where he went to work as a day laborer. He arrived at the pick-up site early and hustled for jobs doing construction and landscaping. He studied English and found a place to live. He learned job skills by watching and asking questions. There really isn’t any job that José can’t do, and do it well.
Last week I told José that he was one of the smartest men I’ve ever met. “I’m like my Dad,” he told me. “I’ve always been able to figure things out.” He also has a lot of common sense (which isn’t so common any more) and a quick sense of humor.
José stayed in the U.S. for three years and returned home at the age of seventeen. Back in Chihuahua, he tamed horses and rode bulls in local rodeos until a particularly nasty bull slammed him against a fence and broke his shoulder. He might have gotten married, but I’m not sure about that. José still has a lot of stories that I don’t know.
When José was twenty years old, he decided it was time to come back to the U.S. He returned to Denver, to work on large construction projects and he tamed horses in Wyoming in his spare time.
Although he is a small man, José is incredibly strong. He can carry multiple sheets of dry wall upstairs and never lose his breath. He can fix cars and anything else that is broken. He has an eagle’s eye for straight lines and angles, which makes him one of Denver’s best pool players. He goes to Las Vegas often to compete in invitation-only pool tournaments. I don’t think he ever loses. One time he came home with a very fancy car when another player foolishly added the car’s title to the bet.
José loves to laugh. I think he’s been married three times. One time he told me, “I don’t care if my wife divorces me, or if I divorce her. I like being married. I’ll just get me another wife.”
Like most Mexican men, José’s one true love was his mother. Until she died last year, José loaded his truck every few months with construction material, and drove to Chihuahua to remodel her home. He was devastated when she died last year, an old woman in her 90’s.
José has an important “real job.” He is second in charge of three huge construction projects. He supervises three separate crews and makes sure the work is done on time and passes inspections. He continues to work side jobs, and came as soon as I told him I was moving.
Although I know that working with José always comes with a lot of frustration, there is no one else I trust more to give me a beautiful new kitchen. The job was originally going to take “two or three weeks.” I should have known better. It is now two months since I moved and we aren’t even close.
My birthday is tomorrow. On Thursday, I told José, “You know what I want for my birthday, Jose? I want a kitchen.” He just laughed.
“We’ll finish this kitchen soon,” he told me. “But not today.”
I often made this for dinner when I lived in Mexico, using food that was available in the refrigerator. Chorizo is a spicy sausage that originated in Spain. I used pork chorizo for this recipe but you can also use soy or chicken chorizo.
Chorizo Hash is one of those “more or less” recipes. Feel free to add more or less of the ingredients you have on hand and to substitute as you see fit.
This recipe makes two generous servings. It can be dressed up by adding two fried eggs or topped with sour cream. Or make a fancy dinner board for your family and friends, with your choice of toppings. Serve with fresh fruit.
Crumble 1/4 pound chorizo into medium sized frying pan and cook for 5-10 minutes. Drain if needed and add:
Cook 20-30 minutes, until vegetables are tender.
Season with: salt and a little pepper
Top with: two fried eggs or sour cream (optional)
I’m afraid I’m losing some of my faculties from being cooped up for so long. I’m on the third floor of an all-concrete building. It’s quiet and cold. The silence is creepy and I never see another soul. Not in the hallway and not in the elevator. Sometimes I think everyone in my building moved away and no one told me to get on the bus.
I got my hair cut this week. It was my first haircut since I broke my leg. I chattered like a crazed squirrel with the Uber driver and my hairdresser. Before he dropped me off, I wanted to ask the Uber guy if I could just ride around with him all day ~ looking for other passengers to talk to.
On the other hand conversations with my neighbors, when I can find them, often sound like an episode from Golden Girls. Two weeks ago I was hanging out in the lobby when I spotted our building representative.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Not good,” she answered.
“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“There were fishies in the washing machine this morning.”
“How did that happen,” I wanted to know.
“Diapers,” she said.
“Really? Adult or baby?”
“Adult. We don’t have any babies here.”
That’s true, I thought to myself. Then I realized we weren’t talking about the same thing.
I was talking about goldfish. She was talking about feces. Sometimes four-letter words are less confusing.
The same afternoon I met a very nice young man. Well, not really young but certainly not as old as the rest of us.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Not good,” Ron answered. Here we go again, I thought.
“What happened?”
“I lost my dog.”
“How did that happen?”
You see the pattern here. I was ready to offer compassionate advice about how he might find his lost dog, when his eyes started to water.
“I mean, my dog died.”
We had a good conversation about how much his dog meant to him. Ron recently moved into the building. He walked his dog often and it was his way of meeting people.
“Do you think you can ever get another dog?” I asked, still trying to be helpful. Actually I wasn’t being helpful. I was being stupid but didn’t know what else to say.
“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s much too soon.”
Then… last week, when I was doing my laundry during my Saturday morning 8:00 a.m. appointment time, another very nice young man opened his storage unit and took out a small puppy carrier. I noticed that he shared the storage unit, and presumably his life, with Ron.
“Do you have a new dog?” I asked.
“Yes. We got a puppy yesterday from the animal shelter. It’s a Peek-A-Poo.”
I was elated. Ron was getting a new puppy, after all.
Yesterday it was obvious that someone’s dog peed in the elevator. Maybe it was a cat? Maybe an incontinent old lady? Maybe it was Ron’s new puppy? I wasn’t upset. I was excited to know that at least one other person still lives here.
When I first moved to Mexico in 2005, I was introduced to a whole new world of cooking. The markets and grocery stores are full of fresh fish, beautiful fruit and wonderful vegetables. I was lucky to have a fruteria across the street from my house and a fresh tortillaria one block away. It is my pleasure to share these recipes with you.
Mayan Chocolate Chip Brownies
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease an 8 x 8 inch baking pan.
Cut into small slivers: 3 ounces of baking chocolate
Melt in the microwave: 1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
Add the chocolate and stir until melted and smooth.
Stir in: 1 cup brown sugar plus 1/2 teaspoon salt
Add and stir until combined: 2 large, beaten eggs plus 1 teaspoon vanilla
Add and stir in: 2/3 cup all purpose flour plus 1/2 tablespoon cinnamon
Fold in: 1 cup chocolate chips
Scrape the batter into the prepared pans. Bake for 20-25 minutes.
Let cool completely before cutting.
I made a major move in January when I bought a unit in an Active 55+ condominium community, two miles from my previous home. I loved where I lived before but I needed to find a place with fewer stairs. A place with an elevator. I definitely wanted a place with an indoor pool.
I found a unit I loved, with two master bedrooms and an oversized balcony that looks over a golf course. I knew it needed a lot of work, but every place I ever buy needs a lot of work. I was ready for a challenge. At least I thought I was.
I sold my other home for a bunch of money. It was all tricked out and there were a lot of people who wanted to live there. On the other hand, I was the only person who wanted to buy my new home. It had been on the market for 125 days and, thanks to my son, Jason, I bought it for a song. I moved into my new home on March 3rd. The next day I broke my leg.
I hire people to work for me because my only remodeling skill is writing checks. I have a crew of people who have worked for me before and I felt secure that the work would be done quickly with impeccable workmanship. I was wrong.
Now, more than six weeks after moving, my two main workers, two middle-aged roosters from Mexico, are sparring with each other. “Supply chain issues” have held up materials that must be coming from the moon. I feel like I’m camping out.
My interior doors were delivered last week, six weeks after their estimated delivery date. Half of the doors were fitted with frosted glass, which someone at the factory painted over before sending them to me. The paint needs to be scraped off by hand, using a razor blade and a lot of patience.
Half of the cupboards in my kitchen have been installed. The other half are sitting in boxes in my living room. Appliances stand like soldiers in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for orders to take their place next to cupboards not yet in place.
In the meantime, I’m meeting my new neighbors as I maneuver my walker up and down the hallway. Only women live on the third floor with me. I feel like a nun, living in a convent without habits. My closest neighbors are two sets of identical twins, a woman who has been totally deaf since birth, a woman who walks 20,000 steps/day to ward off dementia, and a beautiful young woman who is hiding out from a stalker.
Gradually I meet other people from the other floors when I go downstairs to fetch my mail. One of my favorites is a 100-year-old woman, who looks better than I do. She walks 10,000 steps/day with her little white circus dog. Her name is Jeri and she’s one of my favorites.
Jeri has been robbed a bunch of times by people who, she believes, are “just messing” with her. While she is out walking the dog, people break into her unit and take things. Sometimes they bring the things back but some things never return. The robbers take things like her big soup kettle and all the food in her refrigerator. They took her rollers, but not the picks.
Jeri’s daughters, as well as half the people who live here, think she is delusional. The police and the community security force no longer respond to her calls. It’s strange. She’s changed her locks, and still the robbers get in. She doesn’t have a computer or internet, so technology is no help. I don’t know if Jeri is delusional or not. When my sweet, mother-in-law was ninety-five, she was convinced that a sheik sat on her countertop and talked to her. There were children who continually ran up and down her stairs, making a terrible racket.
Maybe Jeri’s imagination is running away from her. Or maybe someone really is watching for when she’s out walking the dog and come inside to steal her hair-rollers. What I do know for sure is the Jeri is smart and feisty. If I live to be 100, I want to be like her.
Many of you wrote asking if Neto won the surfing competition in La Ticla last week. I want to start with the good news:
Neto came in fourth in the senior’s competition on Friday. Because he was in the top six, he is eligible to compete again today in Mazatlán.
But Neto’s big win came last Saturday afternoon, when he placed second in the over-all competition. Second in a contest of more than fifty surfers of all ages! Second place for an old guy who hasn’t trained for competition in forty years. He won a new rash guard, some board wax and a set of fins for his board. Most importantly, he scored more than 800 points for the day. “It was a wonderful day!” Neto proclaimed, as he told me about his big win.
I was wrong last week when I said this was the Mexican National Surf Competition. Actually, it was a preliminary qualifying tournament. The Big Tournament will be held sometime next winter. Meanwhile, Neto will surf again today. He wants to win. He wants to keep earning points.
Neto talked constantly about surfing when I first met him. He watched endless, back-to-back surfing videos until I thought I’d lose my mind. I had never seen actual surfers until I moved to Mexico. My house was two blocks from Olas Altas, one of the many surfing beaches in Mazatlán. I watched scores of teenagers ride their boards over the waves until they inevitably lost their balance and plunged into the sea. At the end of the day, they staggered out of the water, looking beat up as they headed for home.
When I finally was able to see Neto surf, I knew he was no ordinary surfer. He was graceful and sure-footed. He rode wave after wave, gently steering his board away from rocks and swimmers. The bigger the wave, the better! He occasionally turned his board backwards so he could catch the same wave twice. People on the beach stopped what they were doing to watch him. When he came out of the water, some of the younger surfers shook his hand. They seemed to recognize Neto. I was just getting to know him.
Neto learned to surf when he was thirteen-years-old. It is his passion. It is what feeds his soul. He needs to live near water, and preferably near high waves, in order to feel fully alive.
Now the Not-So-Good-News: While Neto was competing in his age category, someone stole his backpack. ¡Carumba! It was in a pile of backpacks that all looked pretty much alike. They were all black, dirty, well-worn packs heaped into a pile. Surfers take excellent care of their boards but trust that their backpacks will be safe wherever they land.
At first Neto thought that someone picked up his backpack by mistake and surely would return it. That’s what he would have done. But, oh no! The thief looked inside and found an envelope of money along with Neto’s bank card and some clothes. The pendajo decided to keep both Neto’s backpack and his own. Luckily, Neto left his phone and his charger back in the motel.
With his money stolen, Neto had no way to get home. His Mazatlán buddies left without him on the bus. A lot of surfers came to the tournament with only their surfboard and very little cash. They were busy pan-handling money for their return home.
Neto found a sport-fishing company and offered to scout for tourists who wanted to fish for tuna, marlin and diablo in return for a “finder’s fee.” When he still didn’t have enough money, he called his boss in Mazatlán. His boss sent him some money to go to Toluca (near Mexico City) so that Neto could pick up an auto part for him there. Neto took a bus to Toluca, stayed with friends, and eventually made it home.
Now The whole episode is behind him. He can’t wait to compete again today in Mazatlán. It’s all he can think of. Buena Suerte, Neto.
Good luck! Ride like the wind!
This weekend Ernesto is competing in the Mexican National Surfing Contest in La Tikla, Michoacan. He is in two separate competitions: the competition for surfers in his age bracket (ages 60-65) and the open competition for surfers of any age.
Forty years ago Neto competed in the Mexican Nation Competition in Guerrero, Mexico. He came in sixth place in the overall competition. The following year, he trained hard for ten months while working as a fisherman in Petacalco. He surfed every day and believed that he could win the Mexican National Championship. But the competition was canceled due to lack of high waves. That was it! All the surfers were told to go home.
Neto moved to the United States and spent the next seventeen years going back and forth across the border. When he returned to Mexico in 1997, he resumed surfing for fun but he never forgot the thrill of competition.
Two weeks ago, Neto got a call saying that a group of surfers from Mazatlán were going to La Ticla, a small surfing village in Michoacan. Nothing could stop him. Not even the fact that he has not been training for competition for forty years. He packed his bag, grabbed his fastest board, and headed for a bus filled with other surfers from the state of Sinaloa. Pure joy!
The bus took two days, going from Mazatlán to Ticla, with an overnight stop in Compestella. As soon as they arrived, the group jumped in the water and paddled out to catch the incoming waves. They rented rooms in town and fell asleep to sweet surfing dreams.
I talked to Neto last night. He was tired but excited. He came in fourth out of a field of fifteen surfers in his age group. Because he was in the top six, he qualifies to surf in the final competition today. He also registered to surf in the open competition, competing against eighty other surfers of all ages.
I hope Neto wins today but it really doesn’t matter. He’s already won.
Neto’s motto is, “I’m never too old to surf.” It is his joy. His passion. He is my inspiration.
What are you never too old to do?